Deduction Soup
by GreenspireTC
Summary: Sherlock gets a cold and John has no other choice but to aid him back to health.


Deduction Soup

It was mid-January. It had been unbearably cold that winter, and when the weather decided to "heat up", it also decided to pour, nay, dump, frozen rain all over London. Sherlock had decided to go out on this hellish day, to "conduct a crucial experiment." He had been gone for hours and surprisingly, John was enjoying himself. He had found a collection of Sherlock's, mint condition, original James Bond VHS tapes, and sat contently watching the first five films.

John had not even noticed how much time had gone by when around when the flat door flew open around 8 P.M. letting in a big gust of the frigid London air. A soaked Sherlock stood in the doorway, his nose and cheeks flushed by the gelid cold.

"I feel like death has warmed over." Sherlock said groggily. His voice was low, and his nose was audibly muffled. John looked up from the telly, and over to the wet man standing in the doorway. John rushed over to Sherlock and attempted to help his companion's sopping trench coat off. Sherlock groaned as the freezing garment was removed from his chilly shoulders. John threw the coat on the rack, and hustled over to Sherlock, aiding him to the sofa. John sat beside him, one of his hands on each of Sherlock's shoulders, rubbing them up and down trying to generate some warmth. Sherlock sat still sopping, teeth clanking together. John gave another look at him, suddenly annoyed and said; "You know, you've been gone for..." John said gently not to rattle Mr. Holmes. He glanced at the clock on the wall "NINE HOURS!" He shouted not-so-gently.

"It's pouring rain and colder than hell itself!" Sherlock mumbled, also annoyed at his motherly friend "Hell isn-" "Oh you're going to know what temperature it is if you don't explain yourself Mister. Nine hours in the freezing rain all for what?!" John stood, positioning himself in the classic 'this better be good' position. "There was a 9 hour span between the time Mrs. Stevenson was home and the time she was murdered. However, the neighbor said he had his kitchen light on when he had claimed to be somewhere else.I needed to see if the neighbor could even see his kitchen light from where he had said to be standing outside." John looked down in utter vexation, letting his eyes roll back into his head. "You stood...in the rain...for nine hours...to look at kitchen lights. What kind of fool does that?"

"I do, that's who. And it seems that it would be my Mothers job to tell me I'm a fool and not my flat mates?" John was a little hurt by the term "flat mate" but he could see that Sherlock said it just to get him. "Come with me, you need to get you into some warmer clothes. Don't want you catching a cold."Sherlock begrudgingly took his advice for it was logical. Sherlock stood, clutching John's shoulder as not to fall over onto the hard floor of the flat. They half walked, half hobbled to John's room. Sherlock was obviously still disabled by the bone chilling cold. The blonde man eased his friend onto his bed, and began to rummage through his closet. Sherlock sat, observing John's wardrobe. It was small, but organized. Everything was either on a hanger, or folded neatly on the top shelf. He thought he caught a glimpse of bright red briefs draped on top of the stack of bedclothes, but his view was obstructed by John, holding a large, ugly Christmas sweater.

"Oh God, please tell me you have no intention of making me wear that atrocious thing..." Sherlock spat mustering all his energy.

"Hey, this is actually quite a nice sweater, my Grandmother knit it for me before she died a few years ago." He paused for sentimentality, "It's nice and warm, which is just what you need. Now take off your shirt." John said, gesturing with his hand. Sherlock smirked, "At least buy me dinner first, Dr. Watson." He coaxed seductively.

"Sherlock, I'm trying to help you out here." He stared down at him, trying to demean his lack of medical knowledge. "Doctor's orders. I don't want to have a sick _flatmate _around me, I've got evaluations coming up at the Hospital and I don't want to catch anything." Sherlock looked up at John, one of his eyebrows arched, his face oozed of seductive sassiness. He began to unbutton his famous purple button down, one button at a time, still trying to get a rise out of John. Slowly, he grabbed both sides of his unlatched shirt, and eased it ever so gracefully off his pale, blueish shoulders and tossed it onto the bed. John threw the sweater at Sherlock's bear chest, crossing his arms and turning away, red as a rose. Returning to normal speed, Sherlock popped his head through the neck of the jumper, slipped his arms through with some difficulty, and tugged the shirt down to see if it fit. It was a bit small on him, the shoulders were a little too tight, and the torso was a just long enough to graze the top of his pants. Sherlock loved it. It smelled like John, a pleasant woodsy smell, even though they lived in the heart of London. It was comforting, and it reminded him of a cozy log cabin, with a blazing fire in the hearth, and a gentle rain pattering outside at the window. He sat, his hair ruffled from the sweater, staring off into space, entranced by the thought of his imaginary log cabin.

"Thank you" John acknowledged, letting out a small huff of relief. He went back to his closet, and fished out a pair of neatly folded grey sweatpants, as well as a pair of gently rolled purple cashmere knee high socks. Sherlock tilted his head slightly, still a little dazed by his imaginary log cabin, stood, and began to strip. "WAIT-" John hollered, startled by the _**nearly**_ naked man before him "Let me out of the room first-" He huffed. John bowed his head, blushing at the floor, exiting the room and slamming the door behind him. "_What's gotten into that man, usually so reserved and...prickish. Now this? The ice must have gotten to that brain of his." _John thought, nearly waltzing down the hall, somewhere between utter delight, and complete humiliation. Moments later, Sherlock stumbled out of John's room, his hand against the wall as he made his way to the damp couch and draped his long body across it. John peeked around the corner from the kitchen to see if Sherlock was fully clothed. Fortunately, or maybe not for John, he was. Coming to his senses, he asked "Sherlock, what have you had to eat today?" He expected the usual. "Nothing" Sherlock moaned. "Chicken Noodle soup always seems to help a cold. "Would you like Ms. Hudson to make you some?" "Soup is incapable of curing an illness single handedly-" He paused to cough violently. "Besides, if I wanted anything to eat right now, I would take a large bowl of Alphabet Soup." John smiled at his friends constant need to be difficult. "Sounds perfect, I call Ms Hudson-" "No, I want you to make it." Sherlock said quickly, jerking his head up from the pillow it was resting on to look at John with immense puppy dog eyes. "Why is that?" John was genuinely confused. "I just want you to do it." "_I can't deny that face"_ John thought after a stare down with his friend (Obviously Sherlock had won with his big, blue eyes). He retreated into the kitchen, fishing through the cupboards. John sifted through the sea of cans. "_We have lots of beans._" He thought, simultaneously hoping he wouldn't find anything left over from Sherlock's 'experiments'. At the back of the cabinet, he found one lonely can of Alphabet Soup. He took it out, and examined the expiration date because he had no memory of buying Alphabet Soup, and seeing Sherlock won't even stop to get the milk, he couldn't have bought it either. Expiration date was a few months away, so he popped open the can and dumped it into a pot. He placed it over the stove, added some water, and waited. After few minutes, the soup started to steam, and he guessed it was done. Finding a bowl would be a challenge. Ms. Hudson usually did the dishes for them, because the smell would travel down to her flat every few days. After several minutes of aimlessly sifting through cabinets, John found a baby blue bowl with a tiny chip at the lip. "It will have to do." he said, pouring the soup into it. Grabbing a questionably sanitary spoon, John went into the living room to deliver soup to his friend who was sitting spun up in a large, burgundy blanket, staring intently at a blank tv screen. "Would you like me to put something on Sherlock?" John said, placing the soup on the coffee table in front of the sofa. "James Bond, please. Dr. No preferably. They're in-" "I have already brought them up." John exclaimed making his way over to the television. "Splendid" said Sherlock, not wondering why the tapes were already up. With the push of a few buttons, John had slid the VHS tape into the player, and was sitting next to Sherlock who was slurping up all of his soup. About half way into the movie, Sherlock was asleep. John reached to grab his only half soup bowl and went to the kitchen to empty it out when he noticed something peculiar. only the letters D, E, U,C, T, I, O, and N were left. John laughed, "Deduction soup"


End file.
